Cwmaman Eighty Four Tory policies killed the mines and murdered the Unions with exorbitant fines. London Police invaded the valleys, illegally preventing lawful rallies. With thin grins and fat wage packets, all shiny buttons and tunic jackets. "Tony's Tigers" came up from the "Smoke", a cartoon name but they were no joke. With "Tony's Tigers", etched and painted on the bonnets of their Black Marias. The London Met remain tainted by this gang of "Thuggish" pariahs. Giving sweets to little girls and boys, before snatching back these edible toys. Babies cried, whilst the coppers mocked the valley miners looked on - shocked. The "Tigers" boasted overtime pay to buy miner's wives sexual play. When the husbands leapt to their defence that was treated as a serious offence. This was seen as excuse enough for "Tony's Tigers" to cut up rough. They beat the poor lads senseless before dragging them off to sentence. Travesties of justice under a feline penant and the unseeing eyes of their Watch Lieutenant. There is an inherent flaw in the Rule of Law. When lawmen, I stress are themselves - lawless. E.K. Morrissey.
NOTE : "Tony's Tigers" was not etched and painted on the Black Marias but were cellophane stickers on windshields and side windows of the vans. "Tony's Tigers" pennants were flying off van aerials.
All other statements in this poem concerning the London Metropolitan Police's behaviour are true descriptions of actual events - except "giving sweets to... these edible toys." What actually happened was : the policemen offered opened packets of sweets just out of the kiddies outstretched hands as they were held in their mother's arms, proceeding to tip the sweets onto the floor where they were ground into the dirt by uniformed boots.
At this stage of the strike, the children probably hadn't had sweets for weeks if not months.
"A Collier's Early Retirement" Blue lips wrapped, round a racking cough. Coal black blood spit into a folded hankerchief. Opaque eyes hide the ache of shadowed lungs. Pit-propped upright, with deathly white pillows, the silence, suffocated by a lament of stranged breaths. He slumps, one frail hand, holding the oxygen mask, the other, clinging to life. E.K. Morrissey.